


Focus Exercise

by Writernon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Dom/sub, Gags, Handcuffs, How Do I Tag, Impact Play, M/M, POV John Watson, Riding Crop, Slight Nipple Torture, Stress Relief, Sub John, Subspace, no sex technically I guess - sorry, pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writernon/pseuds/Writernon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "John slowly, perhaps reluctantly, slipping into subspace." </p><p>John Watson doesn't go easily.</p><p> </p><p> <span class="small"><i>Please read the tags before continuing.</i></span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Focus Exercise

**Author's Note:**

> I have no knowledge of the BDSM scene and am doubtless doing it wrong. I do not advise undertaking practices depicted in this unless you, unlike me, know what you're doing.
> 
>  
> 
> I first posted this [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/13188.html?thread=74247044#t74247044) on the SherlockBBC_Fic Meme Dec. 16, 2011

It starts with the shifting clink of the handcuff chains, the squeak of the leather cuff buckles tightening as his arms stretch up over the reinforced bar in Sherlock's closet. Sherlock stares directly into John's eyes, pinning him in that moment, that things are beginning, that John is giving his volition to this man, someone who others don't trust at all, yet he gives his trust completely.

"Turn." Sherlock says, and John sways around to face the back of the closet, turning his naked back. His head has been buzzing with miseries and minutiae, work, dusty desert memories, he's crammed into his head with them, they're at him like claws, pulling and scratching and scrabbling in his mind. Sherlock can delete things, tuck things away, John can't. He has this.

The first slap of the crop wakes him, snaps him away from his head and into his body, down to the sting. Enough to get his attention. The next is harder, and the next, each holding his attention, keeping him down in his skin and flesh, snapping his focus to each new heated point until his back is a solid stinging warmth. 

The impacts stop, and his first whimper comes unbidden at their absence, but then he feels the touch, Sherlock's fingers tracing the marks he's made, renewed sting trailing in his fingers' wake like sparks from a fire. He lays his palm in the center of John's back; the relative cool of Sherlock's hand sinks into John's skin, anchoring him.

"Turn," Sherlock says again, after a moment.

John does, untwisting his arms to face Sherlock again. Sherlock's cool hand trails around John's side as he turns, turning cool to warm as it reaches his untouched chest. John meets Sherlock's eyes and the fire from John's skin blazes there in the dark, ice-edged wells. 

John nods, drops his head. 

Sherlock steps back, the crop lashes forward, lighting a blaze along John's ribs, and another, and another, his breath coming in quiet gasps as Sherlock builds the burn across his chest and stomach. He drifts on the awareness of nothing, his body sending overwhelming signals that dull the noise of reality in John's head though it's still there. Still buzzing.

The pause in the rhythm of strokes isn't enough to warn him before the crop lands square across a nipple. John flinches back, hard, chain between the leather cuffs rattling against the closet bar, a choked gasp shocked from him.

"Where are you, John?" says Sherlock, rubbing the nipple with the tip of the crop, prolonging the aching string that pulses on John's chest. "Are you here?"

"Mmm. Yes," breathes John, but he's back in his head again, wondering if his cry was heard, the events of the day infiltrating through thinking of the world outside the room.

"I don't think you are." The crop flicks out and tags John's other nipple.

John gasps, breathes through his nose. The new sting isn't as strong as the other, but it works for focusing his attention. Not punishment, never punishment, just pulling him back down into his body.

"What do you need, John? Tell me what you need."

"I- I need..." John breathes, the sting and warmth ebbing. "Make me-" He stops himself, swallows, frowns. 

The crop lashes out, focusing attention on the new flare in his skin. "Make you what, John?" 

John hangs on the chains, breathing.

Sherlock's hand strokes up his chest, up the side of his throat, under his chin, tipping his face up, his eyes to meet Sherlock's again. He can see the answer in Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock knows what he needs, he always does, John just has to let go and say it.

"Make you what, John?" Sherlock whispers.

John sags into Sherlock's touch, face tipping so Sherlock's knuckles run along his cheek. "Please, Sherlock. Please. Make me scream?"

Sherlock smiles and cups his hand around John's jaw, then up through his hair, tugging his head back, face up for a deep kiss. John's eyes close as he sinks into the tangle of their tongues until Sherlock pulls away to pick up the gag.

The dulled clack of the buckle against the stiff leather - still new but wearing in, like this thing between them - is like a hypnotist's trigger. John's breathing slows, his awareness floods into his body, noting the fading stings, the warmth of flush-blood at the surface of his skin, chilling streaks of sweat. He opens his mouth and accepts the leather gag between his teeth, tasting the familiar astringency, leather and sweat.

Sherlock's breath puffs against John's ear as he reaches around to fasten the buckle; his hand traces the edge of the gag cutting into John's cheek. John looks up to meet Sherlock's intent gaze.

"Now."

It wasn't a question, but John nods, drops his head again, breathing picking up speed as Sherlock retrieves the crop.

Somewhere on the edge between John's head and John's body, there is the awareness that Sherlock knows exactly what effect each strike will have before it lands. He avoids the scarred area on John's shoulder, he's only significantly broken the skin twice, both accidents, John turning into the blow, early days. John trusts Sherlock. He trusted him before they began this strange meditation, he trusts him with more than his life. John trusts him with everything he is.

The crop lands, over and over, an irregular rhythm to keep John's mind numb, his body flaring, demanding his full attention. John rotates and presents his back again at the press of a hand, then turns again, losing track of his rotations. His skin is fire, heat and blazing sparks. He sinks down into the awareness of nothing but his physical body, the sensations commanding him. He feels alert, adrenaline, his mind silent, his awareness plummeting down down into his flare-bright skin with each stroke, his breath is ragged and forced around the gag, lightheaded, throat stinging from the continuous wrenching screams being muffled by leather so John won't be distracted trying to repress them.

The crop stops landing. The hands that touch him are Sherlock's, ever, always. He feels them stroke against his fire-skin, flaring the embers left by the crop which has been set aside.

"Good, good. I've got you," Sherlock murmurs, wrapping an arm in a band of fire around John, breath hot on his ear. He reaches up to wrap one of John's hands around the pole to hold on, then releases the leather cuff, supporting the free arm as he lowers it to John's side. His shoulder raises its own scream. "Shh, shh," Sherlock soothes, then repeats the process with the other arm, and finally guides John to the bed.

John's skin is like coals against the cool mattress. Sherlock rolls his head to the side, unbuckles the gag, lays it aside as John breathes and breathes, shaking. A hand spreads against the center of John's chest again, and his breathing slows and calms. John's face is wet. It doesn't matter. 

All John's awareness is in the flaring nerves of his skin and body, and as Sherlock bends, licking along the first of many stripes left by the crop, there's nowhere else he needs to be.


End file.
